Hogtown: A Satire of Rob Ford’s Toronto

Difficile est saturam non scribere.–Juvenal, Satire I

I’m going to miss my friend. But I think Hart Has made a choice no one can fault him for: To move out of this town to what they call The Forest City, two hours’ boring drive Along the 401. True, Western U’s A cracker-box, suburban with no core; But wouldn’t you, like Hart, accept a spot In under-funded grad school rather than This jobless desert, banker’s paradise, Where thanks to cheapskates everything falls down, The centre of our nation’s commerce, arts, And culture, even as we subsidize The TV shows of dreary talking heads Or stand-up acts who couldn’t hack it in LA or NYC? Like those two guys Who bitched about the other London, and Who wrote how everything was wrong in Rome, It fell to me to tell my friend goodbye While loading stuff into his mother’s car.

Hart slammed the trunk, and then turned back to me To say, “There’s no work here for decent kids, Not anymore. The only talent that Pays off is hustling. What profit’s left In working hard when we’re all forced to dive Deep into debt to land an internship? Meanwhile, the boomers with the jobs, who pissed Away our generation’s chances for Inheritance, are too broke to retire. It’s time to leave this town, my home, for good. They used to call it Hogtown, so let’s use That name again: this place is packed with swine. The pigs and shit may long be off the streets – ‘It’s Albany, but cleaner!’ – only now The city’s got the filth within its soul. So when the second-least ridiculous Celebrity to nominate herself As candidate for mayor’s a pornstar, who Was in our grade-school class before the bleach And silicone, why should I stick around? “If only for the sake of argument, Let’s say I chose to stay; where would I live? The housing market here is for the rich. Like weeds, new condo towers sprout into The sky, which no one I know can afford. Perhaps it’s for the best; they’re cheaply made With leaky, floor-to-ceiling glass that pops Out at the slightest nudge. Who’d want to ape That self-defenestrating lawyer if The Darwins won’t award you runner-up? Why live inside a box above the lake When you’ve gone underwater with the bank? Just wait until the speculators come, And buy foreclosures on the cheap, then turn Around and rent them out. At least I know Where I’ll be scoring drugs in twenty years. But that’s enough about our future slums; We’re short of even crappy housing now. It’s so depressing that the only list That’s longer than the wait list for repairs In TCHC properties today Is actually the wait list to move in! To let the bed bugs die off from old age Before you ever live there: what a great Cost-saving innovation! After all, We spent two hundred grand to terminate The rat who ran the corporation last. “At least they could have found a local hire, Instead of bringing in a ringer from The States. I thought that immigrants All ‘work like dogs,’ if Ford’s to be believed. But that’s not true. Is laziness a vice Restricted to one nationality? For every family of hopeful and Industrious arrivals, there’s a swarm Of moochers, grifters, well-connected hacks – The very parasites that sucked the life Out of the countries they once left behind. Our city’s the most multicultural On Earth; for proof, check out our underworld: Italians, Chinese, Greeks, Somalis, WASPs, A regular United Nations full Of crooks and gangsters, dealers, pimps – but that’s Street-level stuff. There’s also businessmen With shady deals, and friends at City Hall: They too can come from anywhere; this town’s Got equal opportunity for all Who leave their sense of morals back at home. It’s always who you know – and who knows you. So don’t romanticize new citizens; A couple generations down the line, Watch how they all get just as arrogant, Entitled, out to lunch, and full of it As any white trash with a pedigree Whose ancestors kicked out the Iroquois. As soon as they’ve got theirs, they pull up stakes, Become reactionaries, and pop out McMansion-dwelling, good Bramptonians. How stupid must they be to back a slob Who calls them ‘wop’ or ‘paki’ to their face, Who proudly claims his racist slurs provide The proof that he’s ‘one of the people’ too. The problem with democracy is that Each moron has his own God-given right To vote for moron representatives. “If, by some miracle, you find a place To live, a job to help you pay the bills, A night out on the town ain’t in the cards Unless you’re flush with cash. If I had kids, Though I can’t see myself affording one, Why would I even want to take them to The nosebleeds at the ACC, where we Would have a bird’s-eye view of all Those suites, leased out to Bay Street law firms or To corporations, which, assuming that They aren’t sitting empty half the time, Are passed around their clients and their pals, A rich man’s season-ticket circle-jerk. It’s not as if they stay to watch the game. Who would, these days? What other line of work, Except our nation’s hallowed sport, can boast A team of losers of that magnitude? The Leafs got booed right off the ice this year, And still they take home millions? How is it They have the nerve to charge a ticket price Unmatched by any other team across The continent? If players for the Leafs Had half the balls their owners do, the team Might squeak into the playoffs once again.” Hart took a breath. He’d gotten quite worked up. “It’s true in all these ways that being rich Makes getting by a little easier. But even if you’re one who’s got it made, Good luck getting around. For everyone, All over town, our transit is a mess. (I’m almost glad a frozen tree fell on My car the night the ice storm came to town.) You’re liable to die behind the wheel Of boredom or old age while crawling through The gridlock; see what good your chauffeur is When stuck behind a streetcar on Queen West! It’s just as fast to walk – but not quite safe. A stroll along our city streets means that You never know when you’ll get ground beneath The filthy wheels of some delivery Truck turning right on red. And god forbid You try to ride your bike around downtown: We spend more money ripping up new lanes For cyclists than it cost to put them in; So look over your shoulder every time You brave our streets, unless you want to get Your handlebar clipped by some Escalade. And if you thought that rush hour was the worst, The traffic on the weekend’s just as bad. Delays are not a problem when, thanks to Some marathon, the Gardiner’s flat-out closed. The side-street overflow is bad enough Without those cockamamie BIAs – You know, like “Little” this, or “Village” that – Which feel the need to throw a festival That wrecks the traffic in your neighbourhood And gives police a chance to stand around For overtime made on the city’s dime. And flying? While the yuppies lobby hard For non-stop island jets to shuttle them To Whistler, those of us without a plane At Buttonville are doomed to wait for hours In line at Pearson, with our shoes in hand, Submitting to the gropes of rent-a-cops To board Air Transat flights to Florida. “However long it takes to leave, it’s best To go; the city’s downright dangerous. The crumbling infrastructure’s bad enough-- Try driving on the Lakeshore, keeping one Eye looking out for concrete chunks that fall Down off the Gardiner—but add to that New perils, each more lethal than the last, Which spring up with sad regularity. We used to pride ourselves about the lack, Compared to cities in America, Of shootouts—‘til the ‘Summer of the Gun.’ If even cute, blonde teenaged girls can’t spend A weekend at the Eaton Centre, of All places, without getting caught between The crossfire of some gangster wannabes, Then how good are the odds for guys like us? It’s not New York, you say; no highjacked planes Have flown into our skyscrapers. Just wait. Once members of the ‘Toronto 18’ Set up their cottage-country training camp, And jerked each other off with crazy plans To blow up CSIS and the CBC, And once another wacko plotted to Derail a VIA train, it won’t be long Before some other nut has better luck. Their own incompetence, not vigilance, Is what stopped them from doing major harm: Thank god our terrorists are not ‘world class.’ For other civic horrors, though, we’re on The bleeding edge: there’s Swine Flu, SARS—you know We’ve made it as a global city when We’re first to catch the hottest new disease.” Hart sighed. The car was loaded, and all there Was left to do was share a smoke before He hit the road. So after lighting up, And pausing as his exhale wafted off, Hart mused, “You know, none of the stuff I’ve said-- The unemployment, crookedness, decline Of public assets, dangers to our lives-- Might be so bad if there was half a chance Those problems would get solved. But not until Our worst disease is cured: our politics. Now that Toronto City Council’s been Live-streamed for all the world to see, it’s clear How second-rate these bumpkins really are Whom we’ve elected, and how wide the void Of leadership now gapes; yes, Ford’s the worst, He makes Mel Lastman look like Pericles, And put the ‘K’ back in Etobicoke; But there are plenty more who, over time, Have bankrupted our name enabling him, Not just his dealers and his junkie friends. So to the list of creeps like David Price Or Sandro Lisi, let’s add other names Like Nunziata, Holyday, and Stintz, And all Ford’s Council allies who spent years Excusing his disgraces, propping up A councillor, then mayor, who – check that GIF – Without support falls over at a snap. And then there’s Doug, cheerleader number one. The elder Ford’s co-mayor in all but name, But when it comes to bullying, he’s his Own man. It’s no surprise the brothers Ford Still think in racist, sexist tropes; the firm Their daddy built exists to label things. How else, except with help, could such a man, So utterly incapable, be mayor? Poor Robbie couldn’t even keep the job He did for free as football coach without A fed-up school board giving him the sack; He came within a hair of being stripped Of office: after Ford admitted that He’d never bothered looking up the rules, The court condemned his wilful ignorance. And all that drama came before the crack.” Hart hung his head, then sighed. “There’s not much point In going on about the videos, The drunken stupors, lies, embarrassments On late-night TV shows—you’ve heard it all. Those ‘maggots,’ as Ford called them, in the press Were right, and nothing shocks us now, we’re numb. When Ford’s away at rehab summer-camp, His car still makes the news, pulled over with An off-the-wagon townie at the wheel. Who are these bimbos hanging out with Rob? The only scandal left to break would have To be a sex tape; but I’ve got my doubts. The only whore I’ve seen him with Is Mammoliti—” Here I cut Hart off. I asked about the looming vote, the hope That Ford would lose his re-election bid. “Odds are, he’s done; but what alternatives Are left? There’s Tory, whose experience In politics is vast, but only if You count concession speeches. When your name Sounds like a villain out of Dickens, then It’s time to think about another brand. It won’t be Stintz, that opportunist hack, Who flip-flops like a suffocating trout. Her tenure at the TTC, aside From wasting billions voting for the scheme To build the three-stop ‘stubway’ she once fought, Forced us to play sardines in buses and In subway cars; she had the nerve to think Free Wi-Fi at St. George would make it right. But what about Socknacki, you might ask? He’ll never win, because he tells the truth-- Or maybe it’s the other way around. And Chow, she’ll make Ford Nation’s heads explode, Our local little Hillary; but when The socialists start lurching to the right With talk of tax breaks for ‘good’ companies, Then what the hell’s the point?” Hart shook my hand. “I’d better go, if I’m to beat the rush. The 401’s a mess most afternoons. So long, but not goodbye; I’ll still be back To visit family. You’re welcome to Drop by my place in London anytime. I know it’s pretty dull; but there, at least, A mayor might get convicted of his crimes.”

–June 2014

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